Tea Party
by SJlikeslists
Summary: Set Christmas of Season One, Miss Parker hangs up the phone after her father cancels on her.


Disclaimer: _The Pretender_ isn't mine.

If I were weighing all things from a distance (a perspective that escapes me at this point in time), I would know that the situation doesn't even warrant a sigh. That would be futile. Sighs are a waste of effort. They accomplish nothing. They display weakness. They are not something to be engaged in even when there is no one to see. It might become a habit. Even if they weren't such a pointless exercise, they are reserved for events that take you by surprise. This is not one of those sigh worthy occasions.

The event was not unexpected. The outcome was not a surprise. It has happened before, and it will happen again. I know this just as surely as I know that I will ignore that I know this the next time that history repeats itself. That is the easy part. I know how to ignore. I know how to pretend. I will lock away all these thoughts that I am having here in a moment, and I will choose to believe that they never crossed my mind. I know that I can do this. I have done that before as well. I am so good at this pattern of selective forgetting that I don't even know anymore how many times it is that I have done so.

All of that (the repetitive pattern of behavior that is so ingrained it no longer requires effort to implement) will come later. But for this moment, this one moment where I am sliding the phone that was the instrument that carried the message that I had convinced myself wouldn't come this time away from my ear, I will let myself think these rebellious thoughts that must usually be hidden away so deeply that they become nonexistent. I will let myself tell myself how foolish I have been to let this happen to me again. I will let myself wonder why it is that I have.

We will not be celebrating together. We will not be seeing each other. The carefully coiffed hair will never have a chance to be shown to advantage. It won't be receiving any compliments. It won't be noticed (an oh so pleasant surprise). It won't be seen at all. The dress that was so carefully chosen will suffer a similar unseen fate. It will find itself buried in the back of a closet never again to see the light of day. It will not come out to be worn for another special occasion. That would invite remembering why it was there in that closet in the first place, and remembering these moments is not something that I choose to do.

It is difficult to choose a word that accurately portrays what I am feeling. I am not entirely certain any longer whether it is because the emotions are confusing or because I have spent so much time not giving them any names at all. Either way, the pretense that I will soon be assuming is probably kinder to my continued sanity than these moments of frailty in which I am currently indulging. Self-introspection isn't really my forte.

It isn't disappointment. I know that much. Disappointment requires expectations. No matter what it may look like, expectations are not something I have any more. What I have is hope. I have hope that this time he will come through. I don't expect that he will. I hope, and I trust in the same way that a child does because they can't fathom that their parents would ever let them down. No one needs to tell me that I should have long since been disillusioned. I've said it to myself often enough. I tell myself that it is uncalled for to react at all. I should know that he is busy. I should know that the unexpected arises. I should know that there are far more important things that need to be done. I should know. I should understand. I do know. I do understand.

I understand in the same way that a little girl understands when her mommy tells her that daddy isn't coming home for her tea party after all. I understand (like she understands) that it wasn't daddy's fault. I understand that he would have been there if he could. I understand that he would never break his word if it weren't important. I understand that he will make it up to me. He's daddy. I'm important to him. What else would he do?

The little girl nods her head and smiles for her mother to show that she understands. She doesn't let on that it hurts. She doesn't let any tears fall. She feels bad that she is tempted to tears at all. Doesn't she trust her daddy? Doesn't she know that he feels badly enough without her adding to it with her silly demands? She brushes off the party dress that she put on special for the occasion. She had been so careful not to get it dirty. She had been so careful to lay out everything just so. It had to be flawless because it was her special time with daddy. She takes off the dress and puts on play clothes. She puts the pieces from the table back in the places where they go. She pulls the ribbons from her hair and lays everything aside for next time. She'll wait for next time because it's her daddy and, of course, there will be one.

I look down at the dress that I spread out so carefully to keep it from wrinkling as I sat down. I finger the pins that hold my hair in place. The effect is flawless. It's a little girl's attempt to make things special for her daddy. I might as well take it off. I might as well take it down. I might as well put all the different pieces away where I won't see them until it is time. You know, the next time, because I'm still that little girl waiting for her daddy to show up for their tea party.


End file.
